


Near-Death Becomes Her

by VeronicaRich



Series: Will Turner's Tortuga Fangirl [2]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 15:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11316450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaRich/pseuds/VeronicaRich
Summary: Prissy crosses paths with Will Turner just once more, a few years after fantasizing about him in Tortuga. Set post-AWE.





	Near-Death Becomes Her

“Land alive! I knew I shouldn’ta gone to sea.”

“Would you quit complaining? Did you see what happened to that ship? We could be dead now, Priscilla!”

Prissy shook her head and took up another extended fit of bailing water out of the rowboat. Griselde just didn’t understand – the woman was impossibly difficult to rattle out of her innate optimism, and for a few brief weeks, Prissy had allowed Griselde’s chirpy chatter to worm its way into her own brain. _In fact_ , she thought, _I’m surprised she hasn’t said she’s so-_

Right on cue, Griselde added, “Oh, I’m sorry – I forgot! I shouldn’t have said that … like that.”

Prissy sighed, looking up. “Said what like who?”

The petite redhead chewed on a thumbnail. “About … dying on that boat. A boat.” When Prissy showed no inclination to lend a hand out of her verbal tomfoolery, Griselde blurted, “Well, you know – Cletus. I’m sorry, Priscilla!”

Even after two days of no food and very little water, Prissy felt her annoyance dissolve at the sincerity in the woman’s nasal voice. Griselde had a good heart – hell, she’d talked Prissy into leaving Tortuga for better pickings, long after she should’ve cared enough about herself to do it anyway. And, there were far more cheerful companions Griselde could’ve asked along on a sea voyage. “I’m not angry at you,” she reassured Griselde. “I am hot and tired, and I want water in the worst way.” She saw the lingering skepticism in Griselde’s eyes. “And my back hurts. Jesus, it’s hard to lean this little bit.”

“Here, I can do some bailing.” Griselde reached for the bucket, and Prissy felt guilty – her small hands, though cracking with sunpeel, weren’t as rough as Prissy’s, having been a whore and not a washerwoman. Prissy was used to the calluses on her pudgy fingers.

“Nah, you’ll get your nice dress filthy,” Prissy pointed out, noting the bottom foot of the blue material was already dingy with salt and grime crust, the hem ripped. “Er,” she added, shrugging. “And you don’t have any more since your trunk sank.”

Griselde huffed primly. “If you get tired, we’ll sink anyway,” she retorted. “You need to rest.”

“What I need is an _oar_.” They’d used the only one in the boat to whack the head and wedge in the jaw of an overcurious shark after the swollen cut on Griselde’s arm had broken open and bled over the side of the boat. “Or better, a ship.”

A huge tremble beneath their bottoms made Prissy drop the bucket as they both clamped onto the boat’s edges, clutching to hold still as the little boat pitched crazily. Not twenty feet away, a fearsome wall of pockmarked wood rose out of the sea, nearly white, water sluicing from its surface and spraying liberally all over the two stranded women. They shut their eyes, looking away, to keep the brine from burning. When they felt the boat’s movement calm and realized their drenching was over, they blinked, looking back over at what had undone all the bailing and left them sitting in six inches of new water.

Directly below the business end of a canon.

“Father Fucking Christmas!” Prissy yelled, nearly falling over the other side of the rowboat, while Griselde emitted a small yelp.

“‘Fraid not.” They tilted their heads sharply back at the voice, which belonged to a somewhat older man looking out over the ship’s rail. “But we might be able to offer you a gift, anyway.” With that, he unrolled a rope ladder that slapped lightly against the bleached wood.

Prissy felt her jaw go agog as she tried to decide whether to trust this mirage – after all, men going around with ships rising out of the depths of the ocean was no basis for getting one’s hopes up. When the man grabbed the top of the ladder and tossed it toward their boat for one of them to catch, Griselde snatched it out of midair and pulled, turning the boat into the great ship’s now-mild wake. “Priscilla?” she grunted, angling them closer so they could climb up. “Prissy?”

“Huh?” The rotund woman shook her wet hair out of her face and paid attention again.

“You think you could wish for a ham dinner, next?”

*****

She couldn’t believe it. “Land alive,” she breathed for the fifth time, shaking her head.

“Mmm hmm,” agreed Griselde beside her, humming happily. Her color had improved greatly since their rescue, from sallow to pinkish.

“I never thought I’d see that kid again, after Jack Sparrow dragged him ‘cross the length of Tortuga lookin’ to make off on that harebrained scheme.”

“That’s no kid,” the other woman sighed.

The man who’d helped them over the rail of the strange ship, Bill, had offered them a seat in the shade of a somewhat holey sail, on a couple of small coils of rope. Two other crewmen had brought them pewter tankards of clean, fresh water, while Bill promised to go turn up some dried beef and hardtack. The women had been left to gape about at their soaked surroundings, the still-dripping men and two male-clothed women hauling lines, rolling barrels, and patching sails. This was all before Prissy had caught sight of the apparition near the helm.

“Land alive,” she’d said plainly, the first time. “We’re on the ship of Davy Jones.”

Except, it wasn’t Davy Jones. Prissy had heard the tales like everyone else, that Jones had been bested and replaced by a mortal-turned-demigod by the name of William Turner. Stories had also circulated that Turner had visited Tortuga once or twice as a human, years ago, in connection with Jack Sparrow. She hadn’t paid much mind to the stories herself, but Cletus had told a few variations, one with each type of liquor he imbibed (and two when he was sober). He claimed to have seen this new immortal captain, and swore he was familiar even from a fair distance.

Of course, Prissy had thought Cletus was full of shit – he usually was _Had been_ – but now she regretted not paying further attention to his ramblings. 

“Land alive,” she muttered again, prompting Griselde to finally ask, “What are you- Oh!”

They both stared. The captain descended the steps, boots thudding soundly with each step, black greatcoat swirling around his knees. His dark blue linen shirt was open nearly to the waist, showing off a firm stomach and chest, bisected by a jagged scar almost too painful to imagine. A faded red scarf tied back long, unruly brown curls, sweeping them away from a strong jaw, slightly crooked nose, generous mouth, and probing dark eyes.

He cocked his head as he stopped a few feet from the women, still seated, and a small smile graced his lips. “I believe we’ve met before?” he asked Prissy.

Before she could make a sound, someone called, “Captain! Ship’s off this bearing!” and Turner had walked off. She and Griselde swiveled their heads to watch him leave, broad shoulders shifting beneath the well-fitted coat as he moved. “Land alive!”

“Can’t you say anything else?” Griselde hissed, pinching Prissy’s arm. “How do you know _him_?”

Prissy gave her the extremely short version, leaving out the part about getting soused, the blatant pawing and fawning, the sexual fantasy, and Cletus’s intervention. She did, however, relate the smacking of Sparrow in detail, just because it had been fun.

They were interrupted presently by Turner, who bid them get up and follow, leading them into a cavernous great cabin. The women goggled at the size of the place, each certain that not even the King himself enjoyed quarters so fine on the grandest ship in England’s fleet. They were not opulently furnished, but the cabin was clean, constructed of a slightly darker wood than comprised the ship’s hull, and Turner explained since he didn’t require sleep, they could avail themselves of his bed and some privacy until they reached the closest shore.

As he spoke, he shrugged off his coat and draped it on a hook near the table, then readjusted his baldric and sword, slung low on his left hip. He nodded at them both and promised that a washing tub and heated water would be brought for their use, as well as soap and fresh clothes (it didn’t do to dwell on where from the crew had taken such spoils, the women decided in a silent look betwixt them).

When Turner left, Prissy and Griselde both tilted their heads to study the shift of his backside beneath the fitted breeches. He paused, turning, and they straightened, eyes flying up to meet his. Studying them, he quirked his mouth, then said, “I’ll have someone send in supper in a couple of hours, once you’ve washed and rested a bit.”

As the door touched shut behind him, Prissy tugged at the neckline of her dingy blouse to fan herself. “Land-”

“-Alive,” Griselde finished with her, also pulling at the top of her dress.

*****

Prissy sighed gladly as she considered the half-plate of food (thankfully, no pomegranates!) still in front of her. After a pleasantly hot bath and hair-washing with fine French soap – in her own water, no less, and not having to dunk after Griselde! – dry, clean clothes, and still in the middle of a meal of roast potatoes, fowl, and mangoes, she was nearly as full and content as a tick. So was Griselde, by the looks of things, though Prissy marked that the woman spent a great deal of her meal staring at their host while intermittently shredding meat off her drumstick. Not that she blamed her or anything.

The captain had said nothing, politely sipping at a tankard of something and dissecting his own meal slowly enough as he examined each woman in turn. Prissy was self-conscious at first, but eventually she simply smiled through whatever she had a bite of and kept chewing. His face was serious, but each time he lifted his mug to drink and blocked out every feature but his eyes, they crinkled at the corners in what looked increasingly like amusement.

“So,” Griselde began after a lengthy silence following pleasantries about the calm of the ocean that afternoon. “Captain … are you all alone, here?”

“I have my crew,” he answered politely.

“I meant – in here. A woman, you know.” Dear God, she was trying to _purr_. Prissy raised her eyebrows and shot Griselde a look, while still chewing. The younger woman was leaning a bit forward, having left her bodice unlaced just far down enough to give a generous peek at the goods. Prissy glanced down at her own breasts, quite aware she’d cinched them as tight as she could – ladies who were “generously sized” couldn’t afford to be too loosey-goosey with the ties.

Turner rubbed at his lightly bearded chin and cleared his throat. “I don’t get too many living visitors, no,” he finally answered.

Griselde dropped her eyes demurely, then looked back up from under long, fluttery lashes. “I always heard the Ferryman charges passage for those who travel with him,” she fairly hummed. “And I don’t have any coins …”

He leaned back, crossing one ankle over the other knee. “Quite true,” he nodded. “What have you in mind, then?”

Prissy nearly choked on the thread of meat she was swallowing. She remembered Sparrow’s young tagalong holding himself rigid, inching away from all female interest at The Faithful Bride – not this man eyeing her travel companion speculatively. “Grizzy,” she muttered as a warning out of the side of her mouth, when it was empty. “Ze man is Deshh.”

“What?” Griselde tried to mutter, frowning in incomprehension.

“He Deshh,” she mumbled through a few teeth, keeping her lips together and her voice down. “Ferriah ub souls?”

“What?” she asked, louder.

Turner butted in quite clearly. “She’s saying I’m Death.”

“Oh?” A small, polite noise and nod; she glanced to Prissy, who glared at her. “Oh!” Then, she considered that, wrinkling her nose. “Um … eww?” She looked to Prissy to see if she’d gotten the response right; the larger woman rolled her eyes and went back to eating.

In response, he lifted each arm and sniffed beneath it. “I was sure I’d shaken off smelling like a stiff by now,” he frowned. He glanced between their expressions of mild horror – and then to Prissy’s surprise, laughed. Loudly. She’d never thought of the Grim Reaper as having a sense of humor.

Finally, he spoke again. “No, miss,” he managed between lingering chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t require that kind of payment at all.”

His phrasing should have set off a warning in Prissy’s head, but she merely chewed, considering that, as Griselde looked puzzled. After she’d swallowed, Prissy asked, “Then, what kind?”

Turner laced his fingers over his stomach and tried to look as relaxed as anyone in his position could. “Stories,” he finally said. “Anecdotes. News. Happenings. Tell me of the world. Tortuga … wherever you’ve come from, where you’ve been.”

It was as though once asked to run their mouths, the two women lost their tongues. They looked down at their plates, at each other, and Griselde shrugged prettily. “What- What would you want to know, sir?”

He swung his attention to Prissy, who was taking her last bite and putting aside her utensils. She swallowed the small piece of fruit and unself-consciously licked her lips free of the juice. “Tell me how you knew Jack Sparrow,” he asked, when she was clear to speak.

Once one story started, another bled from it and took shape in a second tale. Few were completed before another was referenced between the two women, and they spent a good two hours catching their immortal host up on worldly affairs. Occasionally he looked distant, lapsing into silence with no questions – melancholy, Prissy would’ve called it, if she’d had the word. She just thought he looked sad, and it finally occurred to her to wonder if the stories were true that he was doomed to an eternity at sea, always away from land and its people. She conjured up memories of Old Cletus returning after being put to sea for a couple of months or more – much as he loved it, he’d always been happy to see her. Or land. They represented the same.

A few raps at the door interrupted one of Prissy’s more humorous stories, and Turner uncrossed his legs, sitting upright. “Come,” he called over his shoulder.

Bill pushed the heavy door open without so much as a creak and leaned in. “Watch change, Captain,” he reported in a slightly gravelly voice.

“Aye.” Will stood, offering his hand to Griselde. She halfway stood in her place, and he simply dropped his head and kissed the back of her hand. He did the same for Prissy, his lips briefly grazing her knuckles, and as her pulse quickened, she remembered her odd nightmare and thought _I didn’t slap Sparrow nearly hard enough for showing me this one._

“Ladies.” He nodded and stepped backwards around his chair, then gestured toward the bed. “You’ve had a trying day. I’ll see you in the morning.” He turned, lifted his greatcoat from the hook near the door, and slipped into it as he passed the older man, exchanging a few quiet words. Bill nodded, winked at the two women, and pulled the door shut before following Turner.

*****

Life didn’t move at a very fast pace at sea, nor did death, as Prissy and Griselde soon learned – though the _Flying Dutchman_ did have its moments of unique excitement. The first time they felt the deck rolling and dropping out from under them, the two women clutched at one another’s arms and figured they were finally going to meet their Maker. When their feet remained fastened to the wood twenty feet below the surface and descending, though, and they could still yelp without drowning, they remembered where they were. It was amazing what the mind could accept once the body was tested, but the one thing Prissy never did figure out was how when the captain stopped to explain he took them out of sight because there were mortal ships on the horizon, that she could hear him clear as air and not at all muffled by the water skating just above her skin.

The first three days they were forced to find their own entertainment, as there was nothing to do. Turner had bid them think of themselves as passengers, not crew. There was no embroidery to keep their hands occupied, but Griselde knew how to read a little and would sit on a small crate across from Prissy’s and read to her a few pages at a time in the daylight from one of the novels stored in the captain’s cabin. She went slowly, but changed voices for the characters, and Prissy would look out to sea, or watch the crew work as she listened.

And when Turner walked by or was giving orders, both would gladly let themselves be distracted by the comely young man. In fact, Prissy didn’t realize how distracting he was until the morning of the fourth day when he was talking directly to them and instead of listening, she was simply nodding and enjoying the sight of the way of his hair curled between his long neck and broad shoulder.

“… and certainly we can find something other than the scenery of my corpus to keep you occupied.” It was only in the silence immediately following that she blinked and realized he was frowning at Griselde, who had a dreamy expression of her own. “Did you hear me?” he verbally prodded.

“Grizzy!” Prissy snapped her fingers, and the redhead shook her head and flailed a bit sideways, nearly falling off her barrel. “He’s been talkin’ to you.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” She smiled, clutching the book. “What did you say?” she asked him.

Turner looked to Prissy as if prompting her to remember, and she was forced to clear her throat and look away, indicating her own lack of attention. He sighed noticeably. “I said, though you are guests, I believe you might benefit from having something to do, and the crew could use some help. What is it you are trained to do?”

Prissy was first. “I was a washerwoman and seamstress.”

He nodded in approval and looked to Griselde. “I was a … lady of the evening.”

His eyebrows rose. Diplomatically, he said, “I’m sure you can offer other services.” He looked pointedly at the book. “You can read, yes? Good. And count?” He turned and waved over Bill. “This is First Mate Turner. He could use some help with inventory – we sometimes scavenge from wrecks so we have supplies for survivors we come upon, but the sorting is haphazard.”

“Pleased, sir,” Griselde said, as the older man nodded at her.

“Just keep calling me Bill.” His own smile was somewhat charming, and Prissy finally saw resemblance with the captain.

“Are you the captain’s brother, then?” Griselde asked, hopping off the barrel.

Bill offered a hand to help her. “He’s my son,” he explained, at about the same time it occurred to Prissy that it was unlikely someone would name two of their boys William.

“Really? You look so young.” He was laughing as they walked away.

“Prissy, is it? Would you mind helping mend sails?” Captain Turner was asking. She stood and saluted, and he smiled. “No need for that; we’re not Navy. Right over here, then,” he gestured, leading her to a couple of young gobs on another part of deck, surrounded by thick bleached canvas. “Just do as much as you’re able, at your own pace. These boys’ll help you with anything you need.” She saw the quasi-stern look he gave each; they nodded quickly, mumbling “Aye, sir” before Turner patted her shoulder and walked off.

She’d worked with other women before in a sewing circle, but not men, and was surprised that they were as given to gossip as any hen she’d sat across from. The content of theirs differed in that it was mostly about feats and tasks – sometimes they couldn’t even remember the name of “ol’ so-and-so” – whereas the women and girls had been very specific to pin names to deeds (or, as the case often was, rumored misdeeds). The morning passed pleasantly enough and at lunchtime, she took a walk around deck and luxuriated in a nap in the captain’s cabin, to escape the heat of the day.

The next morning passed in much the same way. By ten o’clock, she was almost literally bored to tears. (Though part of it might have been the sun in her eyes, glinting off the calm waves to her right as well as shining directly into her face.) She found herself watching others on the deck longingly, people doing almost anything but the drudgework of pushing a half-dull needle through too-thick cloth.

She was rousted by a shadow falling across her field of vision. It was Captain Turner, standing with crossed arms and watching her; guiltily, she went back to stabbing the equivalent of a brick of iron with a cat’s whisker. Only a few seconds passed before he said, “Come with me, Prissy.” The tone wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t one to be ignored, either. She sighed, put aside the cloth, and hauled herself to her feet, stretching out stiff muscles.

They walked a short distance across deck before he spoke. “You’re used to more physical labor than sitting and sewing.” He paused and eyed her stocky physique, neither salaciously nor critically – which, in her experience, was something of a feat among men. “The gunner could use some help with maintenance. It’s heavy work, and dirty, but it requires some skill and attention to detail.”

Cannons? _Well, why not?_ All right,” she answered easily enough.

Tom Spar was the _Dutchman’s_ gunner, and he was as quiet as Griselde was garrulous. At first, Prissy wondered how she would learn anything, but soon enough she learned to shut up and watch – it cut down on the volume of her questions, paring them to a useful point that didn’t leave the man looking quite so put out when interrupted with one. She was surprised to find after only a few hours that she liked this work. It passed relatively quickly, quietly, and, more importantly, on one of the cooler lower decks of the great ship.

When she got to the cabin that night, Griselde was waiting already. “Prissy!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening. “You’re a right mess!”

“Evening to you, too,” she shot back, yawning.

“Oh, I don’t mean it like that.” She indicated Prissy’s dress. “Just that you’re dirty and dusty. Were you playing in coal?”

With her new work came bathing. Prissy had never held much stock with frequent baths, but having sweated at sea and been around an amazing number of unwashed bodies floating on the world’s largest ready bathtub had altered her outlook somewhat on this score. She welcomed the water that Turner had one of the younger crewmen help haul to his cabin, especially by the time she dropped her perspiring, exhausted body into it right before supper. She ate and dropped off almost immediately to sleep that first night and several thereafter, after minimal conversation with Griselde – but as the younger woman seemed similarly tuckered, it was at least companionable slumber.

After six days, the captain called a day of rest. Prissy had never been particularly worshipful, so she slept late and stirred only a little when she heard Griselde quietly waking and dressing to leave. She thought the woman was daft for getting up early on a day she didn’t have to, but rolled over and went back to dreams of cool rain and white sand.

She spent the day mostly alone after rising later in the morning, wandering the deck and watching people do light necessary work, or playing a bit of a tune, or laughing over something or other, or even watching the captain move among them, pausing to converse every so often with an individual or small group. Prissy had learned long ago to live with Cletus gone long at sea, so she didn’t feel left out.

It was while she perched on a barrel, somewhat drowsy from her week of hard work and weeks of sun, eyes half-glazed on the horizon, that she missed the approach of her benefactor. “I thought you might like to know that’s where he liked to sit sometimes, too.”

“Hmm?” Prissy swiveled her head. “What?”

“Cletus. Sat there quite a few times on our way to The Bridge.”

She didn’t ask what Turner was referring to; she could guess well enough. “How on earth do you remember that old string bean?” But her tone wasn’t harsh or critical.

Turner tapped a forefinger on the side of his head. “Part of the job,” he explained. “Also, difficult to forget being shoved aside so I didn’t sully your honor.”

Prissy cackled at that, pressing her palms together and doubling over. “That was so many years ago!” she managed to exhale. “My honor had passed on to the Green Fields long before even then.”

Turner grinned, showing dimples incompatible with Death. _Then again, that’d sure lure in a hell of a lot more souls than ghostly eye sockets and jagged teeth_ , she figured. “Depends on what kind you’re speaking about,” he observed. “At any rate, I was with Jack Sparrow. He and chastity spent less time together than the Whore of Babylon’s thighs.”

“I’d be curious to know, Captain, if you don’t mind, how’d you end up in the company of that scoundrel?”

He gave her a condensed version of the story, complete with pirates and villains and treasure. And, of course, a girl. Quite a fascinating creature, judging by the faraway glint of Turner’s eyes when he talked about her. It countered the whimsical rolling of his eyes when he talked about Sparrow.

They both fell quiet for a couple of moments after Turner described his own death and resurrection. Finally, he said, “That’s how I’m here, and how I came across Cletus.” He hesitated. “His death was quick; he didn’t remember anything of it, that’s how I can tell.”

She had a feeling this … man, could tell in more ways than that, but didn’t contradict him since it was obvious he was trying to give her some comfort. She opened her mouth to thank him, and out came, “He said he wasn’t ‘fraid to die at sea, but on land.” Prissy picked at a nail. “I didn’t take it personal,” she lied.

“I can assure you that you meant more to him than you believe.” The captain regarded her calmly, his dark eyes steady with reassurance and truth.

“You gon’ tell me he talked about me all the time? That I was his one true love?”

“No.” Turner shook his head, softening the blunt word. “He often referred to you when talking to the other men, though. Right up until I delivered him to the distant shore. He told me you’d catch up someday.”

“Unless I’m off to the Other Place.” She tried to be flip, sharp emotion feeling sour in the back of her throat.

“There is no other place, Priscilla.” He produced a dry, ragged square of worn but clean cloth from seemingly nowhere and passed it to her. “But you won’t be joining him for a long time yet. So, if I may be so bold as to suggest it, you need to decide what you would like to do other than sewing and washing. You don’t seem suited to it.”

Besides Griselde, it had been a long time since anyone had showed enough interest to offer advice. Prissy didn’t like it – or at least her eyes didn’t. She folded the hanky and averted them, trying not to see the compassion Turner wore like his skin. “No ‘fense, Captain, Sir … but you don’t know me.”

“I do not.” She could see out of the corner of her eye that he was turning to walk off. “But your husband seemed to.”

It was just as well he’d gone, since she didn’t know how to counter that. She stayed on the barrel for a while longer, letting the afternoon sun burn off the few tears before they could properly emerge, until she could breathe deeply without the burn in her throat. _Damn you, Cletus. Trust you to run off at the mouth to strangers with things I should’ve been hearing all along, and save your complaining for me._ But it was hard to stay angry at a missing corpse, and eventually she went back to the captain’s cabin to get out of the heat and find a sip of something.

As though a mind reader, Griselde showed up not long after, fanning herself with her hands. “I could use a bath,” she declared. “It’s powerfully hot out there.”

She did look hot and sweaty and about half put-together, as she had pretty much every night last week. “You’re not supposed to be working today,” Prissy pointed out. “You haven’t even been in the sun; how’d you get all ruffled up?” Griselde flushed and fanned herself even more with the collar of her blouse now. “Grizzy?”

“I need someone to help me carry water-”

“Ohhhh, no.” Prissy shook her head and stood between Griselde and the door. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing! I just want a bath!”

Prissy thought fast. “I’ll help you carry water,” she said agreeably, pulling a sigh and a grateful smile from the other woman. “If you tell me what’s going on.”

“Prissy, I-”

Griselde never called her anything but Priscilla. She was obviously flustered and hot, and wanted to clean off, and- “Have you been-” She paused, thinking of the right way to ask. “Fucking the crew?” _Hmm, that was subtle. Somewhere, your unborn children are thanking the Good Lord for other parents._

Griselde’s jaw dropped, along with every bit of color from her face. “PRISCILLA-!” She dropped off, gritting her teeth and shaking a fist down by her side. “I don’t know your last name, bless it all!”

“Are you at least charging?” Prissy winced; she hadn’t meant it to sound that way.

“It’s not like that!” Griselde’s face was suddenly red, and she looked about to explode. Prissy thought of how much safer it would be right about now to have her arm halfway up inside the barrel of a newly-fired cannon. “It’s not for money!”

_Uh-oh._ “So you’re in love?

She shook her head frenetically. “It isn’t like that, either! Just – oh, damn, you don’t understand.”

“Then what is-” She frowned as the obvious occurred to her. “Wait, who is …” She trailed off. “Turner?” Griselde said nothing, shifting from one foot to the other, looking at anything but Prissy. _“Really?”_

“I would rather not explain this.”

But Prissy was undeterred. She’d seen those muscles shift beneath the fabric; she wanted details. “You can’t just say that and then not say anything more-”

“I didn’t say anything in the first place! I wanted a bath – that’s all!”

“Why?” A much less pleasant thought finally broke through. “To wash off the dead ick?”

“He’s not dead.”

“He’s part of this ship, idn’t he? Is he alive?”

“Well, he sure seems like it!” Griselde snapped.

She thought about it. And made a face. “Oh, Grizzy … you mean you put his-”

“IT’S NOT DEAD!” she yelled. She clamped her mouth shut and waited several beats, obviously calming herself, but looking no less annoyed. “He’s not dead, Priscilla. Trust me.”

“Sorry.” Prissy scratched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “I mean – really? It’s not …”

“Not what?” Griselde demanded, arms crossed, tense like a snake routed from hibernation.

“Not … strange?” she ventured. “Cold? Dry? Rough?”

Griselde chewed on her lower lip. Hard. “I am not fucking a dead body. He’s perfectly alive … or something like it,” she conceded, exhaling some of the obvious tension. “We’re just having a good time.”

Prissy thought about that. “So – he can, you know … get it up, still?” She tried to school her face in curiosity instead of revulsion; the longer Griselde glared at her, the easier it was to let contrition finish the job. “It’s a fair question.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s not just …” Prissy frowned, thinking of how calm the man usually looked. “You know – like that all the time?”

“First you ask if he can get it up, then you think it’s hard all the time?”

Prissy was about to reply, but a quick knock at the door silenced her. Both women turned to watch the captain open it and come in; he obviously sensed something was up, because he paused, raised both hands in a mock of surrender, and crossed the room to retrieve a sword from the impressively-decorated wall of weaponry. As soon as he was gone, Prissy said, “Well. I guess I shoulda offered to leave you two lovebirds, there.”

“Why?” Griselde appeared confused, then snapped to awareness. “Wait, you think he’s-”

But Prissy had, in one of those serendipitous flashes of logic, already figured it out. “HIS _FATHER_?”

“Don’t raise your voice at me!”

“You’ve been giving it to the old man?”

“I want a bath, damn it!” Griselde nearly quaked with indignation, her face deeply flushed. “You promised to shut up and carry water!”

“I-”

Griselde shut her up with a finger in her face. “Get. My. Water.”

For once, Prissy wasn’t inclined to push the petite woman. Rather than verbally acquiesce, she hummed, shook her head, and turned away to pick up pails and head out the door.

*****

In addition to her new duties helping Tom, the captain occasionally imposed on Prissy to take a turn with other small tasks – cooking her own food, polishing fixtures, and even helping rig repaired sails up on the lines. This last she did cautiously and more reluctantly than other jobs, since she didn’t like being too high up, but it did serve to get her out in the fresh air without stabbing her fingers on the head of a needle all the time.

Alas, washing and mending sails was an omnipresent chore – it seemed even if the wood and the fixtures of the ship were impervious to rot and destruction, the sails were still simple canvas – and as such she was still assigned a go at that at least once a week. The worn shreds of canvas that couldn’t be salvaged were cleaned and stored for bandaging of shipwreck survivors. All this work taxed Prissy heavily, but after two weeks, her arms and back hurt less, and she came to a grudging enjoyment of even the sewing.

One afternoon, she was washing small swaths of ripped canvas from the night before, when Turner and his undead crew had collected the souls and very few survivors of a sea battle. Privateers and Navy – not under the same flag, obviously – had come to blows on what they thought were mildly turbulent waters. It turned into a squall larger than either captain had expected, and nearly all those who hadn’t been killed by an enemy were finished off by Calypso.

Turner’s policy appeared to be letting the two Navymen and three Spanish buccaneers roam as freely as he did the two women. This made Prissy uneasy – not because she felt threatened, for she’d had plenty of hard experience planting her foot in some man’s knee or her ham-fist in his face, but because of the wary way they all kept eyeing each other. The tension mounted; she worked quickly, wanting to get below to the cannon, which seemed now less likely to go off than any of these five.

She didn’t know what happened; she only heard shouts in a strange language, English curses, and the physical _THWAP_ of bodies slamming into each other. Clutching wet canvas, she straightened and looked back over her shoulder, seeing the tangle of fisticuffs – and beyond that, the captain releasing the wheel and coming around the helm, shaking his head. She intended to keep an eye on them until Turner broke up the fight, since they were only a few feet away.

And then she saw the nearest Spaniard pull a dagger from the inside of his boot, palming it for an upward stab. Without consciously planning it, and keeping an eye on the knife, Prissy pulled the ends of her canvas taut, twirled it out to shake off some water, and spun sideways, releasing one end and letting fly. The free end of the heavy, damp material snapped at the pirate’s wrist, causing him to drop the dagger.

Then he looked up, confusion in his eyes – which turned to murder when he spotted his assailant. He lunged.

Prissy had no time to duck or cower. On instinct, she gritted her teeth and lowered her head as he came within range, head-butting him in the chest. The skinny Spaniard staggered a bit, and she brought the strip up to catch him at the throat, throwing her body weight into it. He fell back, Prissy on top of him, pressing the ends of the canvas into the deck to pin him in a chokehold. His fingers clawed at her forearms, ragged, dirty nails leaving marks, but she held firm – at least until a boot planted lightly over the canvas on his neck. “Priscilla, get up!” a voice barked.

Startled, she sat back on her heels to protest. Captain Turner stood over them, flicking his head a couple of times to indicate she should rise. She clambered to her feet and stepped back, and he removed his boot from the cutthroat, leaning over to grab the front of his shirt and haul him up. He said something in rapid Spanish to the pirate, who blinked in apparent anger – at that, Turner tightened his one-handed grip and pulled the fellow closer, lowering his voice. Whatever he said made the man deflate – still defiant, but no longer carrying the tension of imminent attack.

After Turner had crew escort all five survivors to the brig, he leaned over and picked up the dagger, examining the handle. “Jade,” he remarked, flipping it to study the slender blade. “Not badly made.”

He looked to Prissy, who was still catching her breath. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone launch an offensive with laundry.” He paused, obviously thinking. “Except for that time Gibbs told me that Jack shoved his sweaty headscarf into the new Royal Navy commodore’s mouth. That was just beyond cruelty.” He shook his head. “Where did you come up with that?”

She looked down at her hands. “Right here, I s’pose. Was the only thing I had handy.”

“Ah.” He flipped the dagger again, presenting the jade grip. “We’ll have to remedy that.” At her surprise, he pressed it into her hand. “As my wife once observed, no woman should be without a defense at least equal to the minimum danger she is likely to face with the company she keeps.”

“Eh?” It was more the gift of such an obviously expensive item than the words confusing her.

“You keep company with pirates, you had better be prepared to fight like one.” He smiled. “It’s a lot larger than a mending needle, but I’m sure with Gunner Spar’s help you’ll figure out how to use it soon enough.”

*****

It was a week to the day later, mid-morning, that the lookout sighted a ship. Normally, the _Dutchman_ would have descended out of sight, but the lookout called “BLACK SAILS!” and Turner made no move to hide his vessel. Prissy, who had been sitting on a barrel carefully sharpening the dagger with a little whetstone just as Tom had instructed, looked up every so often to squint at the horizon. The ships moved closer together, and it wasn’t long before she saw same ship she’d spotted on sketched handbills when she was still in Tortuga. “It’s the _Black Pearl_ ,” she murmured in recognition, sliding off the barrel and sliding her stone and dagger inside her stays.

When it drew alongside the _Dutchman_ , its crew hauled out two long planks and extended them, side-by-side to the other ship. Nobody came forth for a while, and then a press of pirates who’d been lollygagging to stare at the Ship of Death and its captain began parting. “Shoo!” she heard faintly. “Step aside, you bunch of yellow mama’s boys. Before I shoot you in the backs!”

That parted the rest of the group quickly enough, and a familiar figure appeared at the rail of the _Pearl_ , doffing his hat. “Why, William, it’s been a while!” he declared, tugging the tricorn back over his mass of headscarf and tumbling black hair. “Lose your heading and need me expert help, yet again?”

Captain Turner snorted in a manner she hadn’t heard from him before, arms crossed as he stood at his own rail. “The only place that bloody compass of yours could lead me would be a distillery or a brothel.”

Jack Sparrow grinned. “Or maybe a particular huge-ish vessel of some marginal magnificence.”

“Some?”

Sparrow showed teeth in obvious delight at that. “Might I come aboard your vessel of some marginal magnificence, Captain?”

Turner rolled his eyes and laughed. “Try not to fall off the plank, Jack.”

With the grace of a longtime sailor, Sparrow hopped up on the boards and strolled across with a noticeable sway, stepping smoothly off onto the _Dutchman’s_ deck near Turner. The two men regarded each other for a few seconds, then greeted with a two-handed handshake and a sturdy embrace. When they broke apart, Sparrow gave Turner’s shoulder one last hearty slap and looked around. “Still a regular dancehall around here,” he remarked, eyes roving until they settled in Prissy’s direction. “Ah, but I see you’ve stocked th’ lake since I was last aboard, eh?”

The captain followed as Sparrow drew closer. She recognized the masculine gleam in his eye, but didn’t quite follow why it was directed at her. Didn’t his face still hurt from when they’d last met? “Jack, this is Priscilla,” Turner was saying, gesturing toward her.

“Charmed, I assure you.” The pirate captain took her hand and kissed the top, lingering to let his moustache tickle the skin in an obvious seduction, while Prissy tamped down the urge to raise her eyebrows. Obviously he’d forgotten their earlier encounter – then again, it had been quite a number of years. “Where did you find this agreeable creature, William?”

“Shipwreck. She’s part of the survivors I have bound for land this time.”

“Ah.” Sparrow gestured with his free hand, in a roll out in front of him. “Neither dead nor dying, eh?” He leered then, and she belatedly realized her dresses and stays had apparently been fitting somewhat looser for a reason since she’d first been hauled aboard; perhaps she cut a more pleasing figure now. That, and … well, she knew to a sailor who’s been long at sea, most any breathing female seems agreeable.

The look made her uncomfortable. Not only was she not of a mood, she’d seen this one chase too many a fine backside just in Tortuga, in addition to his reputation elsewhere. “Can I have my hand back?” she asked, trying to offer a friendly smile.

He clucked his tongue. “Now, Cilla, you’re not that eager t’ cast off Captain Jack Sparrow, are you?”

She set her teeth but tried not to lose the smile, in an effort to be more ladylike. She hated that name. Still, Griselde had been trying to help her see the importance of being more feminine, to ease her way through the world a bit better. “I … just have some work to do, Captain, Sir,” she lied, trying to pull her hand away.

He winked, but didn’t let go. “Not even a tumble, then?”

Upon reflection as she nursed her sore hand a few minutes later, wrapped in a wet strip of threadbare canvas, she realized Sparrow had posed no real threat. He’d had an audience, she was a woman, and he’d been preening his cock’s feathers for all and sundry. Unfortunately for him, she was no hen, and had a bad habit of hitting first and not asking any questions.

Turner had given Sparrow a hand up off his ass. “I think you deserved that one,” he observed mildly, steadying the pirate’s elbow as he rubbed his reddened cheek and moved his jaw around to test its motion.

Sparrow had stared at her in hurt shock, then brief anger – and finally, wide-eyed recognition. _”You!_ he exclaimed. “Woman, do you have to try to knock teeth loose ever’ time we meet?”

“Jack-” Captain Turner tried to say.

“I didn’t do anything this time; I sure as hell didn’ do anything last time!”

“You might’ve done something _this_ time,” Turner argued. Sparrow pouted, still rubbing his jaw. “Come on, Jack.” The younger captain tugged at the pirate’s sleeve. “Let’s go look at that, put something cool on it before it swells.”

*****

“You socked a notorious pirate captain in the jaw _again_ , and he just walked off?”

Prissy considered Griselde’s whispered question as they sat off to the side watching the two crews talk, sing, drink, and laugh later that evening. “There’s the small matter of him sort of deservin’ it,” she pointed out.

Griselde laughed. “Bill said he used to sail with Jack Sparrow, and that scoundrel was getting slapped in all the finer ports the world over before he even had a beard. By women _and_ men – if you take his meaning.” She waggled her slender eyebrows.

“They were all tired of him tryin’ to lure away their bedmates?” she archly replied.

Before Griselde could answer, the two women were interrupted by the older man who’d accompanied Jack aboard earlier. His salty hair and thick muttonchops put Prissy in mind of an avuncular badger, and the set of his jaw helped further. “Ask your pardon, ladies,” he began, “but young Turner mentioned th’ two of you might be needing a lift to land?”

“Your captain doesn’t mind t’ do that?”

“Well …” The fellow smiled, and his eyes rolled away a couple of times as he obviously reached for a diplomatic response. “Let’s just say Captain Sparrow understands the value of stayin’ on the good side of the master of the _Flying Dutchman_.”

Prissy nodded; practicality, she understood. “So he’s after Captain Turner’s boons.”

The man coughed and whacked himself in the chest. “Aye,” he managed. “We’ll be leaving the _Dutchman_ in two days, and just a short voyage to the nearest port, where you’ll be safe and able to find passage further on a more … respectable, vessel. One what’ll carry women regularly.” He inclined his head, murmured, “Ladies,” and seemed happy to be off.

They sat in silence for a while, until finally, Griselde spoke up. “Time to be leaving, I suppose.”

“I guess so,” Prissy answered without enthusiasm. Here in the company of death, life had been about the best she’d ever experienced it.

Despite the celebrations, her somber mood held through the next two days. She had a small bundle of old clothes Captain Turner had provided, as well as the knife and a small sheath he’d crafted for it, that she stood holding, next to Griselde the morning Quartermaster Gibbs had advised they would set sail. Neither spoke, though Griselde sniffled intermittently into a scarf pressed to her nose. Prissy guessed she was fonder of Bill than she’d let on, but said nothing.

Men from Sparrow’s crew moved between the two ships, carrying supplies – barrels of water and crates of produce for the _Dutchman’s_ hold and its occasional survivors, and a large chest up and across the planks to the _Black Pearl_ , its clinking, shifting contents easy enough to guess. The two captains stood off to the side talking; she knew when they were discussing her, for Sparrow’s expression contracted as if sucked in by lemon juice, glaring at her. Turner tapped his arm and must’ve said something conciliatory, for Sparrow stopped just short of making the sign of the cross in her direction and gave his attention back to the other man.

“I suppose we’d best be gettin’,” Prissy finally said. Griselde, who she absently noticed had no bundle to carry, nodded.

As they moved toward the planks, Captain Turner met them. “So eager to be off, then?” he asked, the small wrinkles around his eyes giving lightness to the words.

Prissy looked around at the people … spirits? … she’d come to know over the past few weeks. “Can’t stay here forever, can I?”

“I don’t believe you’d want to.” He transferred his attention to Griselde, a weight settling into that dark-eyed gaze. Prissy didn’t understand, but something obviously passed between them – and Griselde’s eyes widened. She put a hand to her mouth and took a step back.

As if summoned, Bill appeared from the edge of Prissy’s vision, an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “There,” he said, patting her shoulder. “You know this place, aye? Not so bad as all that, m’ girl.”

It took a moment, but Prissy finally understood. She nearly whirled on Turner. “She’s _dead_? How- when?”

“Shortly after you two came aboard.” His voice was quiet, punctuated by Griselde’s somewhat louder sniffling now. “She-” He shifted his glance to the woman he was talking about and changed his address. “ _You_ , had a badly infected arm. It spread throughout your body; nothing could be done for it by the time you made it here.”

Prissy touched her throat. “Am I dead, too?”

He shook his head. “You are quite healthy and likely to stay so for a long number of years …” Turner trailed off, leaning closer. “Possibly unless you hit Jack a third time,” he finished, sotto voce.

The gravel-voiced devil himself interrupted. “William, my crew’s about t’ mutiny if we don’t shove off,” Sparrow warned, coming up beside Turner. “If you’re done with your ladies’ tea, might I gather up th’ last of your perfidious cargo and be on me way?” He gestured flippantly at Prissy without looking at her.

“Jack, I’m sure if you keep both your hands and your remarks to yourself, you’ll have no further troubles with Miss Priscilla.” Turner eyed her slyly as he added, “And if you don’t, just be sure to stay out of range of any wet canvas.”

“Eh?” Sparrow furrowed his brow almost as deep as Turner’s.

Prissy paid no attention, turning to Griselde. She didn’t know what to say – her closest friend before now had been in childhood, and had died of the consumption at age fifteen. “I wish you were coming along,” she told her. “Not sure how I’ll pass the time by myself.”

Griselde, who had mostly stopped crying, shook her head. “You were doing all right in Tortuga; you’ll do just fine now, too.”

She remembered – and shook her head. “I was getting along,” she conceded, “but your prodding me t’ leave was maybe th’ best thing’s happened in a long while.” _Since I met Cletus_ , she thought. _Bet he’d be surprised to have heard that._

The two women stood awkwardly facing one another, until Griselde threw her arms around her friend. Prissy patted her back a couple of times, and swallowed around the lump in her throat when the shorter woman pulled away. “Anyway,” she finally said, nodding toward Bill, “looks like you’ve got someone else t’ keep you company now.”

Captain Turner’s expression shifted from compassionate to confused. He blinked. “Father?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Bill cleared his throat. “Well, what of it?” he countered, eyeing his son. “Your mother’s long gone, and I’ve not had a woman’s company for nigh on two decades.”

“Bill, you old seadog.” Sparrow cackled somewhere behind them. “You always did have a thing for redheads. Remember those French twins, when we’d visit …” He trailed off as both Turners looked back at him, one’s expression murderous, the other’s shifting into the hurt of a betrayed little boy. “Uh-oh … ah, that is … well, shit.” The pirate clammed up and backed away.

Turner turned back toward his father. “Redheads?”

Bill held up a hand. “Now, son …”

“Time to leave!” Sparrow bellowed, raising his voice for any crew lingering on board the _Dutchman_. “All aboard who’s going aboard th’ Pearl!”

Prissy moved to obey, but Griselde grabbed her free hand again. “Good fortune to you,” she said, squeezing.

“You too.” She nodded toward the two Turners engaged in a predictable argument off to the side. “And good luck with _that_.”

“Oh, them.” Griselde waved a hand toward them. “They’re just men. They’ll get past it soon enough.”

“I mean, havin’ the captain maybe as your stepson. Or somethin’ close to.”

Griselde’s jaw dropped a bit; obviously she hadn’t considered that. “Oh, Lord,” she said. “I suppose I’ll have to stop staring so much, won’t I?”

A whistle behind her got Prissy’s attention, and she turned to find Sparrow jerking his thumb toward the planks. “Hike your skirts and climb on up there, woman,” he ordered. “This isn’t a pleasure ship at Your Highness’s leisure.”

The two women bid one another a final goodbye. Prissy approached the planks; Sparrow held up both hands as if to ward her off, leaning back a bit, but then he took her elbow and gave her a boost up. She hesitated, feeling the uncertain sway of the narrow planks. “Well, toddle along,” he instructed after she’d stood there a moment, unmoving, walking his jeweled fingers in mid-air. “We’ll have you back on land sewin’ and washin’ soon enough, I promise.”

Prissy remembered what Captain Turner had said about her suitability for that life. “Maybe I’ll stay at sea, instead,” she snapped. “I’ve heard tell ‘bout women pirates, right?”

The look of horror that crossed Sparrow’s face was worth enough to keep her grinning as she summoned up the pluck to finally cross the unsteady boards. “God ‘imself help the Brethren,” she heard him muttering.


End file.
